


lock and key

by stonedgeralt



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Jaskier is a soft top and Geralt is a needy bottom, M/M, Praise Kink, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, purely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedgeralt/pseuds/stonedgeralt
Summary: Before he even opens the door, Geralt hears raucous laughter and tankards banging on tabletops. He hears the melody of a popular song being expertly played on a lute, and a familiar voice singing the lyrics above the crowd.A voice that sounds like home.---Jaskier loves his man and makes sure Geralt knows it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 496
Collections: Geraskier Kink Bingo





	lock and key

**Author's Note:**

> Purely self-indulgent trans Geralt content that I wrote in less than 24 hours. 
> 
> PLEASE ADVISE: As a trans man, I tried my hardest to make this an easy, comfortable read for transmasc folks, but some of the terminology I've used may cause distress/dysphoria.
> 
> Thanks to [Aaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream), [Lupe](https://twitter.com/LoxVol), and [Kendra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots) for giving this a once-over and yelling about it on Discord. I really appreciate y'all's support!
> 
> The song Jaskier sings was inspired by [Ancient Water by Future Islands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUw-sF4kOI8).
> 
> This is my second fill for the Geraskier Kink Bingo, filling the "scars" space on Card C.

It’s nearing dusk when Geralt returns to the inn. He’s exhausted and ravenous, but the hunt had been a success: He has no injuries, the job had taken fifteen minutes, and he’d received a hefty coin purse in exchange for his work. All Geralt wants now is a hot meal and a soft bed, and preferably someone with whom he can share both.

Luckily, he has that someone waiting for him.

Before he even opens the door, Geralt hears raucous laughter and tankards banging on tabletops. He hears the melody of a popular song being expertly played on a lute, and a familiar voice singing the lyrics above the crowd.

A voice that sounds like home.

Geralt enters the tavern and his ears are immediately assaulted by cheers. Even the drunkest patron raises their drink toward him; some clap him on the back, while others shake his hand. Evidently, Jaskier has done very well tonight, and Geralt is grateful.

He seats himself at the table nearest to the makeshift stage. Jaskier grins at him and waves merrily. His face is flushed and his blue eyes sparkle in the lantern light. Geralt grins back. A barmaid brings him a tankard brimming with ale and a steaming plate piled high with meat, bread, and vegetables. He devours it like it’s his last meal, then settles back to watch Jaskier’s finale.

“My good patrons,” the bard begins, “this last song has never before graced the ears of the public. I’m playing it as a treat for you, for your generosity and kindness.” He winks in the direction of a pretty woman standing nearby and, much to her delight, adds, “Especially yours, Esther.” Jaskier picks at the strings and, satisfied with their sound, begins to play.

It isn’t a jaunty, vulgar tune, like the ones he usually plays in taverns to an inebriated audience. This song is soft and romantic. Geralt realizes he’s heard Jaskier humming it to himself for a week now.

Jaskier sings of two people in love: one who’s been locked, the other their key. The whole thing is steeped in metaphor, and Geralt expects the drunken patrons to boo and hiss. To his surprise, however, many have paired off and are swaying to the music. Some of the men’s eyes glisten with tears, and a large group of women has gathered very near the stage, their eyes wide with hopeful wonder.

Geralt smirks into his ale. _If only they knew._

Jaskier finishes his song and receives a standing - if rather wobbly - ovation. He bows dramatically, winks again at the group of women, and begins packing his lute into its case. The group disperses, many of the ladies probably going to tend to drunken husbands, but a few stay behind. The bravest one approaches Jaskier, who gives her a bright smile.

“Master Jaskier,” she says in a saccharine voice, “your last song was just _lovely._ ”

Jaskier bows again. “I thank you, kind lady,” he says, his tone noticeably lacking amorous intent.

The woman doesn’t budge. “Forgive my asking,” she continues, “but did you have anyone in mind when you wrote it?”

At that, Jaskier puts an arm around her shoulders and leans in. The woman nearly bumps her forehead against his in her eagerness.

Jaskier points directly at Geralt. “See over there, at that table?” he asks. Geralt is suddenly very concentrated on a crack in his tankard.

The woman squints through the dim light of the tavern. “Is that the witcher, sir? The White Wolf you sing about?”

“Indeed, it is,” Jaskier replies.

After a long pause, the woman says, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Jaskier chuckles and says, “That’s alright, my dear. Let me explain. The White Wolf - Geralt of Rivia - I wrote the song with him in mind.”

The woman wrinkles her nose - not in disgust, but in confusion. “But ‘twas a love song,” she says.

“Correct. He’s my lover.”

Geralt’s face flushes. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Jaskier using that word to describe him.

“O-Oh,” the woman says, clearly flustered. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to—”

Jaskier makes a dismissive sound and waves his hand. “Nothing to apologize for. But we would both appreciate your discretion.”

“Of course,” she says, tripping over the words. “I won’t say a thing.” She nods at Jaskier, glances briefly at Geralt, then hitches up her skirt and rushes off to join her friends.

Jaskier slides onto the bench across from Geralt. “How long do you think she’ll last?” he asks, taking the tankard from Geralt’s outstretched hand.

Geralt looks at the group of women. They each avert their eyes when they’re caught staring. “I believe the secret’s already out,” he answers.

“Ah, well.” Jaskier drains the tankard and sets it down with a hollow thump. “I hate to disappoint a fan, but she was getting a bit too friendly for my taste.”

Geralt feels pleasantly warm - the food and ale have done their jobs remarkably well, and the sound of Jaskier’s voice saying _He’s my lover_ still rings in his ears. He reaches across the table and takes Jaskier’s hands in his own, squeezing gently.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

Jaskier smiles fondly. “I missed you, too.” His smile quickly goes from affectionate to mischievous. “I got us a room while you were gone,” he says offhandedly. His grin and the spark in his eyes betray his intentions.

Pleasant warmth turns to raw heat that coils tightly in Geralt’s belly. “Mm,” he says, trying his best not to squirm in his seat.

“Would you like to go there now?” Jaskier asks, still feigning innocence. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Yes,” Geralt says. He releases Jaskier’s hands and stands up. Jaskier does the same, then heads for the stairs. Geralt follows him, so close behind that he nearly steps on the other’s heels twice. 

When they reach the room, Jaskier’s nonchalant facade immediately dissolves. He herds Geralt toward the bed as he divests the witcher of his armor and trousers, while Geralt does the same to Jaskier’s doublet and shirt. Geralt is already throbbing with need; when Jaskier cups him through his underclothes, he has to bite back a whine.

“So wet already,” Jaskier murmurs, sliding his palm back and forth slowly. “You’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Yes,” Geralt says, pawing at Jaskier’s breeches. “Missed you.”

Jaskier tangles his free hand in Geralt’s hair and pulls, making the other expose his throat so that he can kiss him there. Geralt moans, rocking his hips, pressing himself into Jaskier’s touch. “You taste so good,” Jaskier says, and the feeling of the other’s lips against his skin makes Geralt shiver. 

“Fuck me,” Geralt says. “Please, I need you now.”

“I can see that.” Jaskier pushes his hand tight between Geralt’s thighs. “I can _feel_ that,” he says, his voice low. Geralt’s hips buck and he moans again. Gods, this is what he’d been waiting for all day - while searching for the monster’s nest, during the fight, as he’d accepted his payment, all he’d been thinking about was Jaskier’s hands, Jaskier’s mouth, Jaskier’s cock. He aches with need, and the heat in his belly has begun to spread throughout his body. Geralt feels like he’s on fire, and he wants nothing more than to let himself burn.

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s underclothes down around his thighs, and Geralt gasps at the feeling of the other’s palm against him, skin to skin, _finally._ “I think you could be wetter,” Jaskier says. “Let me help you with that.” 

Geralt walks backwards until his legs touch the mattress. He sits down heavily, his fingers clutching the back of Jaskier’s neck as the other nips lightly at his collarbone. He desperately tugs at his underclothes, then spreads his thighs, shuddering when cool air wisps against the wetness between them.

Jaskier kisses a line down Geralt’s sternum, sliding his hands up the other’s sides. He rests them over the two scars under Geralt’s pectorals. Jaskier pulls away, admiring the faded white curves as he runs his thumbs across them gently. “So handsome,” he murmurs. “My handsome witcher.”

Geralt covers Jaskier’s hands with his own, holding them over his chest. Out of the dozens of scars he’s received during his lifetime, these two are the only ones that he wears with pride, because he _chose_ them. He lets Jaskier admire the scars with kisses until he’s squirming with need beneath the other’s ministrations.

Jaskier pulls away and sinks to his knees in the space between Geralt’s legs. “Lean back a bit, love,” he says. Geralt does as he’s told, leaning back on his elbows, making sure he can still see Jaskier’s face. He’s trembling, his skin tingling, his toes already curling in anticipation of the pleasure he’ll feel so very soon.

“Look at you,” Jaskier says. He spreads Geralt open with two fingers, humming when Geralt whines. “I’ll never tire of this view. Gods, you’re practically _dripping._ ” He raises his eyes, meets Geralt’s hungry gaze. “Maybe I don’t need to help you, after all.”

Geralt’s blush spreads to his chest. “Please,” he says. “Want your mouth, wanted it all day.”

Jaskier smiles and presses a gentle kiss against Geralt’s thigh. “Since you asked nicely,” he says. He leans forward and licks a long, slow stripe over Geralt’s slit. Geralt throws his head back, cursing fervently. Jaskier does it again, and again, and then wraps his lips around Geralt’s cock and sucks _hard._ Hips bucking, Geralt moans, and he reaches out a shaky hand to grasp at Jaskier’s hair. 

Jaskier hums around his cock. He swirls his tongue over it, then pulls off with a wet sound. He licks into Geralt, taking his time, making Geralt come undone on his terms - just the way Geralt likes it. Geralt’s hand in Jaskier’s hair isn’t so much a guide for the other as a lifeline for himself, something to ground him and keep him from shaking apart like a stone wall during an earthquake.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “Are you ready for me? Or do you want to come like this, on my tongue?”

Geralt’s head is reeling. “Tongue,” he gasps. “Please.”

“Oh, _good_ boy,” Jaskier murmurs. He kisses the patch of curls above Geralt’s cock and busies himself once again between the other’s quivering thighs.

Geralt feels that heat concentrating in his belly once more. Jaskier’s tongue fucks into him, wet and warm and, _gods,_ he really is dripping at this point. He keens when Jaskier touches his cock, stroking him between two fingers.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt moans. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

Jaskier makes a sound that means, _Wouldn’t dream of it, darling._ His fingers quicken their pace, and it’s only a few more seconds before Geralt comes, sobbing, clenching his thighs tight against Jaskier’s ears. Jaskier doesn’t stop until Geralt can’t hold himself up any longer and falls backwards against the mattress, twitching with every aftershock. His legs feel like jelly, and he finds it difficult to open his eyes fully.

Jaskier, resting his cheek against Geralt’s thigh, laughs softly. “Oh, love,” he says, “I’m not finished with you just yet.”

Geralt utters a shuddering moan. He _adores_ this man.

“Tell me what you want, Geralt,” Jaskier says, rising to his feet and stepping out of his breeches. Geralt catches a glimpse of his cock, red and glistening at the tip, and moans again. “C’mon, I know you can.”

Geralt swallows; his mouth is dry from panting. “Your cock,” he says. “Please, Jaskier.”

He nearly chokes when he feels a blunt pressure at his entrance. Jaskier puts his hands on the undersides of Geralt’s thighs and lifts them. “Good boy,” he says, and pushes into Geralt in one quick motion. 

Geralt cries out, and his fingers clutch desperately at the sheets - it won’t be the first set he’s ruined this way. 

“So good for me,” Jaskier says, squeezing Geralt’s thighs. “You take me so well, Geralt.”

Geralt whines and clenches around Jaskier’s cock, forcing a punched-out sound and a curse from the other’s throat. “Harder,” Geralt rasps. “Please.”

Jaskier slams into him, hips connecting with Geralt’s ass hard enough to bruise. 

“ _Yes,_ ” Geralt moans. “Fuck, just like that, _oh—_ ”

Jaskier pushes Geralt’s thighs back further, thrusting with such force that Geralt feels himself sliding across the sheets. Geralt cants his hips and gasps at the feeling of this new angle. Jaskier’s so deep, so big inside of him; he’s so _full_ , and his head is spinning, and his skin’s on _fire—_

Geralt covers Jaskier’s hands with his own. “More,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. 

Jaskier braces his feet against the floorboards and fucks him impossibly harder. Every thrust makes Geralt see tiny spots of light in his field of vision. Distantly, he hears himself crying out, hears the lewd sounds of Jaskier’s cock pushing into and pulling out of him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, “I’m—”

“Not until I tell you,” Jaskier growls, punctuating each word with an almost vicious thrust.

Geralt whimpers, clutching at the last fraying threads suspending him over the precipice. “Please,” he begs. He starts babbling, then: “Please, Jaskier, _ah,_ make me come, I want to come on your cock, _please,_ Jaskier—”

Trusting Geralt to hold himself open, Jaskier moves his hands from the other’s thighs: One sweeps sweat-damp hair from Geralt’s forehead, and the other moves to his still-sensitive cock. Geralt can’t stifle the sound he makes, doesn’t want to.

“That’s right,” Jaskier says. “Let them hear you, darling. Let all of them know that you’re mine.”

“Yours,” Geralt moans hoarsely. His eyes fill with tears of pleasure, of pure euphoria. “Yours, I’m yours.”

A strangled groan rips itself from Jaskier’s throat, and he says, “Come for me.”

Geralt releases the threads and lets himself tumble over the edge, _howling_ as he comes again. His body clenches around Jaskier’s cock as his hips buck wildly; Jaskier presses him against the mattress and keeps fucking him. Geralt’s tears spill over as Jaskier comes, too, his cock buried inside to the hilt, chanting Geralt’s name like it’s the only prayer he knows.

Then Jaskier is kissing him, softly, slowly, bringing him back to reality. Geralt’s thighs are sticky, and his hair clings to his face, and his chest is heaving like he’s just sprinted up a mountain. But there’s Jaskier, looking down at him with an expression like he’s the most beautiful, most precious person in the world. Geralt smiles weakly and reaches out his arms, pulling Jaskier into a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Missed you so much. Thank you.”

Jaskier kisses Geralt’s damp forehead and sighs shakily, happily. “You’re welcome, Geralt,” he says. “Now, let me clean you up, yeah?” He rights himself and moves toward the wash basin. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Mm.” Geralt’s body feels light, almost boneless. He moans softly as he rides out his weakening aftershocks, shifting his hips to draw them out. He doesn’t have a name for what he feels right now, but he’s almost tempted to call it _love_.

“Still?” Jaskier asks when he notices. He presses the damp, warm cloth against Geralt’s swollen skin. “Sorry, love,” he soothes when Geralt winces.

“It’s alright,” Geralt says. “Be better in the morning.”

Jaskier rinses the cloth and returns, wiping away tears, sweat, and other errant fluids. Then he helps Geralt get comfortable in the bed before settling into it himself. Geralt clings to him, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and hooking his knee around the other’s thigh. Jaskier pets Geralt’s hair and kisses his forehead. His thumb rubs soft circles over one of the scars on Geralt’s chest. 

“My good boy,” he murmurs, and Geralt makes a pleased sound. “I’m the luckiest man on the Continent.”

“After me,” Geralt says, his voice heavy with fast-approaching sleep. “Luckiest after me.”

Jaskier laughs warmly. “After you,” he concedes. “Get some rest, now.”

Geralt yawns against Jaskier’s neck. “Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight, Geralt.” One last kiss to his forehead. “See you in the morning.”

“In the morning,” Geralt echoes, letting his eyes slip shut. His foggy brain has one last thing to say: “Love you.”

Jaskier’s arm tightens around him. Geralt can hear him smiling as he says, “Love you, too.”

Geralt shifts himself closer, and falls asleep to the gentle thrum of Jaskier’s heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter [@stonedgeralt](https://twitter.com/stonedgeralt)!


End file.
